Минивер Чиви
Минивер Чиви был рождён
На горе и лишенья,
Жить босяком был обречён,
Со дня рожденья.
Любил Минивер старину,
Где блеск мечей и кони,
Что мчали бойко на войну
В узде, попоне.
Мечтал о том, как Камелот
Отправится на Фивы,
К Приаму свой направит флот
В венке оливы.
Оплакивал безвестность он,
Чьё имя не звучало,
Жил без романтики, смешон,
Страдал немало.
Минивер Медичи любил,
Хоть никогда не видел;
И постоянно сам грешил,
«Мух не обидел».
Минивер проклял простоту,
Цвет хаки ненавидел;
Лелеял он свою мечту, -
Лишь латы видел.
Минивер золота искал,
До боли раздражался;
Удачу в жизни не поймал,
В том сокрушался.
Хотел лишь рыцарем он быть,
Мечом в бою сразиться;
Сгодился Чиви виски пить,
На долю злиться.
* * *
Edwin Arlington Robinson - Miniver Cheevy
Miniver Cheevy, child of scorn,
Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;
He wept that he was ever born,
And he had reasons.
Miniver loved the days of old
When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;
The vision of a warrior bold
Would set him dancing.
Miniver sighed for what was not,
And dreamed, and rested from his labors-
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,
And Priam's neighbors.
Miniver mourned the ripe renown
That made so many a name so fragrant-
He mourned Romance, now on the town,
And Art, a vagrant.
Miniver loved the Medici,
Albeit he had never seen one;
He would have sinned incessantly
Could he have been one.
Miniver cursed the commonplace
And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;
He missed the mediaeval grace
Of iron clothing.
Miniver scorned the gold he sought,
But sore annoyed was he without if
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought
And thought about it.
Miniver Cheevy, born too late,
Scratched his head and kept on thinking-
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,
And kept on drinking.